They Called Me a Stylist
by SneverusSnapers
Summary: Tigris, the stylist whose life turned into a nightmare. She sank from fame designing outfits in the hunger games to running a furry underwear shop and harbouring the Mockingjay with only a taste of vengance. But how did this all happen? Story of her life.
1. Lilac

**A/N: **Warning - I wouldn't read this if you haven't come across Tigris in Mockingjay yet otherwise you probably won't understand it and it might give something away. Anyway, I was re-reading "Mockingjay" andI ran across Tigris. Now, no matter how much I didn't notice her the first time I read it, it more than made up for it when I read it then. I can say that she more than intrigued me, and I was surprised to see there were no fanfics about her. Then again, she's only a minor character technically. But still, I felt that I had to write somethign about her. This is going to work in a style different to that which I've done before. Hey - I'm experimenting! So every chapter is going to be a flashback into different sections in her life. Her personality will severely jump, as will her appearance, age, job, and most importantly - name. She's a Capitol citizen, so she's going to be seriosuly sltering her life. For all of you who can't remember's benefit - Tigris is the owner of the furry underwear store in Mockingjay who hides Katniss, Peeta and a few other rebels for a short amount of time in her basement. She also looks like a mutated cat. But that's going to all come up at the end, since I'm starting when she's around ten. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy it and review.

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><p><span>They Called Me a Stylist<span>

_This is the tale of me. I've been through more than enough names in my lifetime, but I guess it ended as Tigris. Tigris, the owner of a ridiculous furry underwear store in a cracking Capitol. Hiding the Mockingjay with only a bitter taste riding on my tongue, driving me into rebellion. A failure. A freak. A mutation. And all because they called me a stylist. They called me a stylist..._

I suppose it started when I was about ten, I don't know how many years ago, giggling gleefully at a joke which has faded out of my memory through the years, I bet it wasn't even particularly funny. I suppose that was the time I looked the prettiest in my life, with a natural shine about me and a certain glint in my eye. Of course things could never last. I remember holding up a china doll with the trademark 'district one' hidden underneath layers of a lilac dress I had made myself. It was my treasure. The dress extended with hundreds and hundreds of layers with lace, silk, pearls and dainty cream ribbons, the extravagance overwhelming beauty and pummelling it into submission.

I remember hurriedly shoving it into my mother's hands, hoping for some sort of praise but instead getting the hands whipped out from under it and the doll itself tumbling to the ground, shattering into shards. A startled cry left my mouth, but as I hurriedly bent down to scrape up the fragments of the doll my mother's foot crunched down on that doll, removing the remnants of my love. All I remember about my mother is that foot, the rest is fuzzy. But I remember the electric blue sandals raised like a platform and then the foot itself, twisted and lemon coloured with orange stripes curling around it. Mutated. Well, like I'm one to talk with the state I'm currently in.

This is one of my most prominent memories. Maybe it's because I am technically unsure of myself, and this was what started it – my mother breaking my favourite doll. It's a scene that's not that rare in the Capitol, we can break whatever we want and usually we don't have anything with true sentimental value, but back then I did.

I remember clutching the tattered dress I had hurriedly whipped away from the remains of the doll and sobbing under a twisted candy-coloured lollipop tree, so artificial it just made my eyes sting to look at it. My body racked with sobs and my throat felt like sandpaper, it was so sore. Overall I felt absolutely terrible, no exaggeration.

But, to my complete and utter surprise, when I was scrunched in the fetal position, desperately trying to grasp onto myself, a thud hit the ground on the grassy patch beside me. Curious, I looked up from my sobs and found myself looking up into the face of my next door neighbour's only son. The shock of seeing him here by me sent my mind reeling, but I curiously poked him anyway, as f to make sure he was real.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my brow furrowing with interest. "Not that I don't want you here, it's wonderful, but..."

"What do you think, moron?" he said so briskly I felt something choke in my mouth. At the look on my face a smile grew up over his freckled face, overpowering his tawny brown hair. "Nah, don't worry. I just wanted to see if you're okay, that's all."

"You wanted to see... if I was okay?" I choked, the shock of such concern overpowering me.

"Well, yeah. I suppose... you're awfully odd, aren't you?" he said. I remember my face flushing bright red at that remark, it seemed embarrassing at the time.

"You are too," I mumbled. "Not that it's bad or anything, I hate normal people. Not saying you're not normal of course, but..." my voice eventually faded away.

"Hey, what's your name?" I remember him ask me as he stuck out his hand, as if expecting me to shake it. "I'm Orlando Sydney Justice Horatio Frederick Michaelmas. You can call me Orly though, my friends call me that. Well, they would. If I had any. But now I do, don't I? You can be my friend, can't you? Well, come on then, are you an Avox or something or aren't you going to talk?"

"Oh I, I'm... well," I muttered, my face flushing.

"What do you want to be called?" Orly asked me and the thought struck me in rather an odd way. What did I _want_ to be called? I searched around for a name that I could place and looked down at the shredded doll's dress clasped in my hands.

"Lilac," I smiled, "you can call me Lilac."

"Okay then Lilac," Orly chirped and then tugged the dress from my soon empty hands as I longingly gaped at them, wishing for it to return to me. Oblivious of my desperate clawing for the dress, Orly beamed at it and then turned it over as if for inspection.

"Not half bad, you know? I think it's rather nice actually; you do have a talent for designing you know. Maybe if it was sown together better it wouldn't have been so ripped..."

"That was a... an accident," I murmur quietly and Orly grins at me again.

"Well you need to take better care of it. Tell you what; I'll stitch it up for you. I have thread in this exact colour, you know. It would be perfect for the job."

"You can- you can sew?" I ask in amazement. Now it's Orly's turn to flush bright red.

"Yeah, everyone thinks it's pretty girly and stupid."

"No, no. It's really nice," I said after a slight pause and Orly's face brightened considerably.

"Really?" he asked me.

"Of course," I said, "I only wish I could sew well..."

"I can do that for you if you like!" Orly perked, his face beaming a toothy grin at me.

"I could always design some stuff for you to sow up... If you wanted," I murmured.

"Yeah! That'd be great, wouldn't it? You know what? With me on your team you're a proper stylist."

"A stylist?" I parroted.

"Yep, a stylist. And I could be, like, a member of your prep team. Only we're more like partners - _obviously_."

"Obviously," I echoed.

"Maybe with me being slightly more important," he added.

_I'm pretty sure I nodded or something then, but the memory of what happened goes pretty hazy at this point. All I remember is that they first time I was ever called a stylist, and no matter how stupid it was, I nodded. Why I nodded, I don't even know. Why I was happy, I don't even know. Stylist. The word burns on my tongue like acid and I feel my stomach churning at the mere whisper of the word. They called me a stylist, and he was the first one._


	2. Streaky

**A/N: **Thanks to my one reviewer MockingjayFlying, it's much appreciated. Also thanks to elliehxyz for adding this story to your favourites and Almiaranger for putting it into your story alerts. Thank you all for your support and I hope you all enjoy this next edition of "They Called Me a Stylist" – don't worry, it gets better.

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><p><em>Past when I was just a little girl the next important yet bitter stage of my life flashes in front of me, burrowing into my heart. This was when I was a teenager, I don't know how old. Maybe fourteen, fifteen? No, I must have been older than that. Sixteen, perhaps. Probably, well, sixteen. Orly and I had been doing the usual downstage designing for a while, but only personal things. Nothing big, nothing huge. And certainly nothing anyone would pay for. A friend's birthday? What do you get someone that has everything? I suppose not even friends really, but in the Capitol a birthday is treated like a ritual and you're supposed to attend. So yes, we made little accessory clothes like scarves or hats or even gloves, just little things. But this day that sticks so clearly in my memory was something else entirely.<em>

"Hurry up Lilac," Orly puffed, beckoning me into his house.

"No need to bite my head off, I'm just coming," I said, cracking open a tin of tuna on my way in.

"How can you _eat_ that stuff?" gagged Orly, swiping his hand through the air to try and waft the scent of tuna away from him.

"It's dietary, anyway, that's not all I eat," I dismissed with a wave of my hand.

"Oh yeah, then what else do you eat then, moron?" Orly quizzed and I felt my face flush from the light purple, or rather, lilac, that I had dyed it to show off, to a rather deep shade of burgundy.

"Raw meat," I mumbled.

"Oh yeah? And that's better how?" Orly sighed at then, upon realising he was blocking my entrance, stepped aside to let me through.

"So..." I said as soon as I got inside, looking around Orly's pastel coloured hall as if scanning it for a speck of dust. Deciding with the affirmative when I saw a flake of the stuff fluttering in the air, I turned to Orly. I was about to point out that he has dust all over his house, but then decided against it with the gormless look he was using to gawp at something in the room behind me.

"What're you-" I caught my breath in the middle of my sentence when I turned around to see what, or rather whom, Orly was staring flabbergasted at. She was a rather short woman with streaky white and red hair with an uplifting feel about her, her freckled face all too familiar for my taste.

"You're..."

"Hayley Hazel," Orly finished off for me, covering up my excitement and pure bewilderment, only to display his.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, then realised how rude it sounded. "Not that I'm happy at all, I'm overjoyed and everything, but why?"

"I'd have thought you could have at least fainted," Hayley beamed and then bounced towards Orly and I. Then she held up a hand which turned out to be a light shade of toffee and used it to direct herself around both Orly and me, clawing at the air around us as if trying us out.

Hayley Hazel, the stylist for district ten in the hunger games and probably our least favourite. Her forte being cows for the livestock district, Orly and I often jeered at her outfits as they came onto the chariot track since they just didn't work at all. But, even if I wasn't the greatest fan, she was a stylist and she was in my house. Or rather, she was in Orly's house, but that wasn't exactly the problem.

"I'll lay it to you straight," said Hazel with a huff. "Two members of my prep team just decided to get married and leave the team altogether, and with a grand total of four weeks before I meet the tributes I definitely need to pull together a replacement in a snap. I don't expect anything to be done for district ten in time anyway, so I decided to do it for myself. Now, a little birdie told me that you two aren't half bad with a needle and thread, or the boy anyway, and that you, my girl, are a rather quick hand with a pencil on the designing front, eh?"

Judging by the pause she left for us Orly and I hurriedly nodded, desperately trying to keep up with what she was saying. Us? On her prep team?

"Well, not exactly what I wanted. I was looking for someone to do the makeup, not make the outfits – that's my job. But I realise now that whilst Yvonne, that's the current member of my team who hasn't abandoned me, may be okay at designing she has a real art for makeup, so she could pretty much handle all of that. So that means you, as long as you can handle some makeup, could be free to give me a hand once in a while. Putting pen to paper and coming up with new ideas, let alone stitching them out, is such a drag. You could help me out, you know?"

There's a brooding silence as Orly and I stand, paralysed, and engulfed by what she said. Me? Orly? On a hunger games prep team? The _same_ hunger games prep team? It's like a dream come true, really. Sure it's district ten, not one, two or four, but we've got an opportunity we could have only created in our wildest dreams. And it's real. Wait a second...

I pinch myself.

And it really _is_ real. This is absolutely flabbergasting, gobsmacking, phenomenal news. It's absolutely...

"Crap," says Orly and I stare at him wide-eyed until he speaks again. "I used all my cow print thread yesterday."

I don't know if it's a joke, a rejection, accepting or just statement of fact so I turn to Orly. Can you even get cow print thread?

"We'd be mad to turn her down," I hissed, pulling him aside.

"Maybe I am mad," Orly said with a glint in his eye.

"What?" I gasped.

"But not that mad," smiled Orly and soon i found his contagious smile spreading to my lips.

"We accept," I said gleefully with a proper smile and Orly nodded along with me.

"Great, err..." Hayley said, indicating for us to tell her our names.

"Orly," smiled Orly, and then they both turned to me. Embarrassed, my face flushed slightly.

"Just tell me you're not a lilac," sniggered Hayley, indicating to my lilac skin, hair and even clothes. Suddenly I felt an unexplainable panic to impress this strange woman, and my name felt even more stupid than it had ever seen before.

"Of course not," I smiled, gesticulating rapidly with my hands to Orly to get him to shut up while I held Hayley's attention with my gaze. "I'm called..."

I scanned the area for some sort of clue to hurriedly come up with a name, any name. Finally my eyes rested on Hayley's red and white striped hair, mainly red, a bit like bacon.

"Streaky," I coughed out and Orly raised an eyebrow as if to say 'really?'.

"Yes, really," I said hurriedly and then realised no-one had actually said anything. "I'd really find it funny if my name was lilac. Anyway, this was all... a dye mix-up, that's all. It was going to be red with white streaks after your amazing hair. I was just about to remedy it now"

No matter how farfetched the flattery was Hayley paused, shrugged, and then started to leave the room before picking up a drawing that was on a sideboard, next to the random floating piece of dust.

"Hey, you drew this?" she asked, nodding towards a bright red shoulder dress covered in shining pearls covering it like lights.

"Err... yeah," I mumbled.

"Well you're quiet the stylist," she shrugged as if that comment had nothing to do with her and then stepped out of the room, and then out of the house.

_I remember her turning back momentarily to throw some sarcastic comment to Orly about his name, but everything just goes furry and fuzzy after that, like a blanket has been thrown over my memory to keep out the cold bits stirring back in. But that bit is stirring enough. She also called me a stylist; she was the second person to do so. But she was definitely not the last._


	3. Clarisse

**A/N: **Thanks to the four of you who reviewed since the last chapter – radio-dammit, Whistlewind Wolf, an anonymous user and MockingjayFlying. Your reviews are all much appreciated and spurred me on to publish this chapter with speed! I've tried to do this in a different style, maybe with a lot of talking and speech and meaningless conversations, but they work to build up a picture of the character and how she changed all throughout this. We still have the name Tigris to come up, though, and probably a few more. I'm thinkign this might be five chapters, something like that? Maybe a bit longer... This never was going to be particularly long anyway, so enjoy it while it lasts. =D

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><p><em>I suppose I soon got used to the jeers when I mentioned my name, but Orly mostly shielded me from them. Most of the time. Only when Orly wasn't there I felt more and more lost. I don't know why, probably because I was pretty useless on my own. I was always suddenly timid and frightened, but I remember the one time when I learnt to stick up for myself. I must have been, what, twenty, twenty-one? Pretty stupid really, that I hadn't stood up for myself before then, but it was better late than never.<em>

"What _are_ you doing, Streaky?" sneered Yvonne, the third member of Hayley's prep team, as I helplessly tried to sort out our female tribute's hair. I remember that girl, she was called Clarisse and she certainly didn't make it far. Barely escaped the bloodbath with her life, and then ended up getting hunted down by the Careers on day two, I really do pity her memory.

"Sorry," I mumbled and pulled the deep chocolate hair up higher, positioning it nearer her forehead than down the back of her neck like it had been before.

"You should be," snarled Yvonne as she viciously dabbed make-up onto Clarisse's face. "Where is that hopeless so-called stylist I have to put up with anyway?"

"Hayley asked to see him," I murmured quietly, dipping my head in shame as if it was my entire fault – which it was certainly not, I might add.

"Oh honestly, well I suppose it wouldn't have been any better if he was here, he never does anything anyway, and the rare little he does do is so poor it's more of a hindrance than a help. For example, the other day I asked him to sort out Clarisse's nails while I nipped to the toilet, and when I got back she had virtually no nails left, look at them!" she said, jerking Clarisse's hand up to prove a point, showing nails which were almost ground down to finger level.

"He's not that bad, Yvonne. Please don't be mean about Orly," I muttered.

"Oh yes, and there's his name," continued Yvonne as if my asking for her to stop had just been prompting for her. "_Orly_? What kind of name is that? It sounds like a biscuit brand if you ask me, not a name. Then again, we can't talk much in your presence, can we? Streaky! I can only imagine what your parents must have been thinking. But seriously, Orly? If you ask me-"

"WELL I DIDN'T!" I yell, the dam inside me breaking and water flooding throughout me, firing the anger boiling in my blood. "I COULDN'T CARE LESS ABOUT WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY! IT'S ALWAYS YOU, YOU, YOU! YOU DON'T FOR ONCE THINK ABOUT HOW OTHER PEOPLE MIGHT FEEL, DO YOU? HOW I MIGHT FEEL, HOW ORLY MIGHT FEEL? YOU KNOW WHAT? I'M FED UP OF THIS STUPID, STUPID NAME AND ALL OF THE STUPID, STUPID COMMENTS THAT GET THROWN MY WAY, MAINLY BY YOU! NO-ONE TAKES ME SERIOUSLY BECAUSE OF THIS DRATTED NAME, SO YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU KNOW WHAT? I'M CHANGING IT!"

I turned to Clarisse and my voice became softer, though the anger was still flaring through my red and white striped nostrils, "you don't mind if I use your name, do you Clarisse? It's a beautiful and strong name, and I think it suits me well. What do you think?"

Clarisse, probably out of fear, nodded meekly. "GOOD!" I yelled, turning at Yvonne, and then strode out of the room, pride swelling me up so I almost inflated like a balloon. It felt wonderful to be in power, in control again. And my time of fearing Yvonne was over. On my way out I barged into someone.

"Watch where you're going!" I snapped and then saw the face of a bemused Orly smiling at me.

"I knew you'd change sooner or later, I knew it." Orly smiled.

"Well, I'm called Clarisse now. And I'm going straight away to get this dratted dye out of my skin, out of my hair, out of my eyes, out of _me_!" I puffed and then strode onwards. To my surprise Orly jogged after me.

"What exactly are you doing, Orly?" I huffed reluctantly as he followed me.

"Following you, moron."

"I can see that, I mean _why_ are you following me?"

"Isn't that obvious?" asked Orly.

"No, it isn't. Otherwise I wouldn't have asked the question, moron yourself." I snapped at him.

"Okay, okay. Calm down, I'm just here to give you a few tips on style, that's all."

"Yeah right," I scoffed, "you do know that when you dye your skin you have to be _naked_, right, Orly? And no way am I prepared for you to see that sight."

"But you will be?" asked Orly with a cheeky grin.

"Ye- NO! Now get out of here before I make you get out!" I growled and physically shoved Orly out of my room, bolting the door behind me. To my complete and utter surprise, when I turned around I jolted to see the face of none other than Clarisse. The original Clarisse that is, not just my reflection.

"Str- I mean Clarisse," murmured Clarisse.

"Yes, hon?" I asked softly, a smile playing on my lips as I saw the fifteen year-old girl actually looking up at me in fear, of all things. Not that it pleased me particularly; just it was pleasant to see more emotions displayed towards me than disgust.

"Well, I just have a message from Hayley that she asked me to give you," murmured Clarisse and she tugged out a lemon scented piece of hand sown lace which served as paper according to the current style in the Capitol. I gently took it out of my hand, and as Clarisse neared the ddor she turned to me and I couldn't forget those words she said.

"You're a stylist, Clarisse."

Then she left the room, leaving me with my thoughts buzzing around my head and, as I quickly re-bolted the door behind her, I opened up the piece of lace which was folded in half.

_Oi __Streaky__ Clarisse,_

_I can't be bothered to explain it all to you, but I think it's for the best if I do. My daughter's taken a fancy to your job, quite simply, so I'm afraid it was either you or Yvonne to go, in knowledge of Orly's recent promotion to district twelve stylist. Now, I'm afraid it's you. I think it's maybe what Clarisse told me that confirmed that. The other Clarisse, that is. Your temper is not one of a prep team, neither is Orly's either. And anyway, you two were never suited to being on a prep team. So, after much debate and shadowing the death of the district eleven stylist, I have decided to promote you to the stylist of district eleven. Just because my daughter wanted your job, is that clear? Now don't get any notions of grandeur or anything, especially since you changed your name, just go there and do your job, okay? And do it well while you're at it. I suppose I'm glad both you and that boy are off my hands, you were a real handful._

_Get lost,_

_Hayley Hazel._

It took me a few moments to swallow in all of the information and I remember a choking feeling throttling my throat. I was a stylist, a real stylist, and so was Orly!

_I think I might have pinched myself yet again and then re-read the letter, but my memory isn't what it used to be and everything starts fading away at the point, drifting from my mind. Well Clarisse called me a stylist too, she was the third. First Orly, then Hayley, then Clarisse. But no way were they the last._


	4. Crystal

**A/N: ** Guess what? In this chapter... they call "Clarisse" a stylist! Wow! Like that's never happened before! *gasp* Anyway, just needed to get that out of my bloodstream before I start to write this thing. Usually I do the A/N after, just before I update it, but hey – I can do this however I want, right? Thanks again to everyone who reviewed the last chapter... so thanks to MockingjayFlying (who just loves shout-outs since I don't give her any in my other stories). So enjoy the chapter and hopefully review! ^_^

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><p><em>My mind is like a hazy maze, memories flickering in and out, but never forming to pure perfection. It's like an admin job, scanning through all of these memories to try and find one that works, that I can recall to perfect... well, perfection. But then the next one comes up and I know immediately why I can remember it. Orly.<em>

"Clarisse, can I have a word?" I looked up, or rather down, to see the rather short, and short tempered, member of my prep team.

"What is it Hugo?" I sighed, turning to see his rather grumpy looking face glowering at me as I sat at my desk sketching vague designs. District eleven was always full of thousands of things to make. You didn't know quite what you could do for the agriculture district until you were doing it. Currently I was sketching out a brief design of some sort of wheat nymph or something, unfortunately it couldn't have been far from what my tribute needed. I guess I was working on sorting that out though.

"I, well, I have a request," Hugo stammered, his face dipping low. What was up with him? He almost looked ashamed to ask. Reluctantly I dropped my pencil and turned to face him properly.

"What is it?" I sighed.

"You know Lucy?" Hugo asked and I felt a heavy sigh escape from my lips. How could I not know Lucy? Build of an elephant and an attitude of one too, always grumpy and attacking, never letting me make a move without her consent, no matter that I knew best. I didn't really know what to do with her.

"Yes," I said, grinding my more animalistic instincts into dust, "I know Lucy."

"Well, I was wondering if, for just this one, I could maybe design her outfit? I have this really good idea, and-"

Hugo's voice fazed off and he looked up at me expectantly. I didn't know quite what to say. Let Hugo do the designing for me? Just for Lucy, and I couldn't think of anything to do with her, granted.

"She looks like a bloated bull," I sighed and Hugo nodded slightly in agreement.

"But I know just what to do," smiled Hugo.

"You know what?" I sighed, "you take this one then, it'll be good for you to see what life is like for a stylist, count as it for experience."

"Yes ma'am!" yelped Hugo and hurried out of the room. With yet another resentful sigh I tugged myself out of my chair and headed for the door. Just as I swung it open I saw a glinting smile beaming at me from the other side.

"You know Clarisse," Orly smiled, "that's exactly what I'm talking about."

"What?" I huffed, slamming the door behind me.

"What do you think, moron?" teased Orly, "letting Hugo do the designing for you, I call that what a true stylist would do."

"But I'm not a 'true' stylist, am I?" I groaned.

"I suppose not." Orly nodded.

"Hey, that's not true!" a voice calls and both Orly and I whip our heads around to see Hugo, just about to depart. "She's a true stylist, she is!"

Before I could say anything else he had sprinted off, leaving both me and Orly staring at each other.

"That message clear?" smiled Orly.

"Crystal," I beamed. And then I paused, and thought about what I had just said. "Crystal, that's a nice name you know?"

"Oh not again," sighed Orly, "you're always content on changing yourself, whilst me – well, I don't think I've ever changed."

I studied Orly and found he was telling the truth. Sure, he had grown up a bit but he still had the scruffy brown hair and the hazel eyes, even the same cheeky expression. He still even had the same name. But me, my appearance, my personality, even my name, had changed too much for me to think about.

"Well, you can call me Crystal from now on," I sighed. Before I could do anything, or think about anything, Orly had pulled me next to him and had his arms clutching me in a tight embrace.

"Orly – what are you?"

"Oh Clarisse," choked Orly, painful emotions riding through his face.

"Crystal," I corrected him, my face flustered and confusion sparking through my body.

"I know they're coming for me, they're coming for me. They're here," whispered Orly.

"Who's coming for you? Who's here?" I asked, trying to tug myself out of his grip without success and I looked around the corridor carefully. Before I had thought we were alone, but it definitely was not the case then. We were surrounded my rings and rings of peacekeepers. The closest one came up to Orly, completely ignoring me, and prodded him in the chest.

"You Orlando Sydney Justice Horatio Frederick Michaelmas?" the peacekeeper asked, saying his name all in one breath, unfazed.

"I am," said Orly strongly, cutting off what I was going to say, still cradling me in his arms.

"You're under arrest, for high treason against President Snow. Take him away," growled the Peacekeeper.

I looked up at him, shocked. "Orly, what have you done?"

The peacekeepers froze, and looked at their leader, seeing that I was still wrapped in his arms, as if noticing me for the first time.

"Do you wish to get in our way, lass?" the peacekeeper who had spoken before said, cradling his gun in his arms with glee, "do you wish to join this rebel in his punishment. Which, I'm sure you might like to know, is _death_. So do you wish to stay with him?"

I froze, and looked up at Orly's paralysed body, unsure of what to do. If I went with him, well, I was doomed. But if I didn't could I ever live with myself? But at least I would live...

"No," I said eventually and prized myself from Orly, stepping back, tears welling in my eyes. "I don't wish to stay with this _rebel_." I spat out the words like poison, though it wasn't Orly that was poisoning me, it was myself. Inside I was a torrent of emotions, bubbling through me, but all I could express outside was a dull throbbing pain, like an arm aching after it has been over-worked, nothing more, nothing less. But inside my heart had snapped in two.

The swarm of peacekeepers swamped him, grabbing various limbs, pointing guns so they covered every angle of his body. The only part of him I could see through the wave was his cheeky grin, and as they tugged him off that was covered too. But just before that I saw him mime some words.

_I remember that it took me a while to register them, and by that time I had by back pressed against the wall, myself curled into a ball on the cold marble floor. By the time I registered those words it was too late, for both me and for Orly. Those words, the very same words which ripped through my heart like paper and sent my whole body into spasms, those words that haunted me for the rest of my life:_

"_Chin up, moron."_


	5. Tigris

**A/N: **Sorry this has been so long, only my laptop broke and I went through a lot just to get this chapter to you now since it takes about an hour to be able to continue just one chapter of my old stories, let alone writing them (long story - computers playing up and transferring files and such). Anyway, I bring the fifth and final installment of Tigris' life, and I hope you enjoy and review! ^_^

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><p><em>After that my life just seeped away I guess, my designs failed and when all President Snow would do was offer me a job as prep team's assistant, then take that away after a matter of days, I knew everything had just went wrong. They never told me what Orly did; I only have to wonder to brew wild concoctions and fantasies. Maybe he was trying to kill President Snow, or maybe he was just too clever for his own good and not basic Capitol stock. Either way, I had known him. We were friends, we could have been more than that if time had played things right. Even though I abandoned him at the end we had been close. So I was a danger too. So I had to be subdued, barred from the Capitol eye. I tried to leap back into fashion, changed my name to Tigris and got surgery to completely change my appearance. But the surgery went wrong. I suppose President Snow found out what I was doing and didn't want me back as a stylist, well, that's what I tell myself anyway. I ended up as a mutation, a deformed cat with features pushing all over my face. But I had to do something, anything to survive. Even if no-one would talk to me like that.<em>

_I got out all my savings and Orly's too; he wasn't going to use them, was he? I took over a business that was going bust with all its stock and used all of my remaining connections that hadn't already burnt down to keep myself afloat running a furry underwear shop; lifeless, mutated and degraded as I was._

_I got in touch with the rebels, it wasn't much but I did. They put me down as a safe house, to harbour rebels if I needed to. It wasn't much to me, but they kept me afloat too, helping with connections. So I lived, hiding my face from view and disgusted at myself, bitterness riding on the end of my tongue. Until one day the Mockingjay turned up in my shop, just like that, the figurehead of the rebellion. Needing to be hidden for safety._

_So I agreed, I let her stay. Anything to harm those people who had taken Orly from me and killed him, anything to harm those people that had ruined and degraded my life. I wanted them to hurt, I wanted them to feel the pain that I felt every day when I looked in the mirror. I wanted them to feel that a thousand fold. And everyone that had pointed or laughed or jeered at me in the street could feel it too. The could feel the pain._

_So I hid her, and when it was time for them to go, and me too, to try and make them a distraction, I did. And that's what I remember, that's what I remember doing._

I scurried out of the shop, clutching a batch of furry underwear. Maybe I could scatter it in the crowd or something. I pulled off into the steady stream of Capitol citizens swarming towards the town centre. I threw a piece of furry underwear in the air, hoping it would cause some distraction, but it just got trampled underfoot by the stampede of people barging past. For the first time in quite a while no-one jeered or sniggered at me in the street, they were all fleeing for their lives, and I could stand in the street without being laughed at again. It felt wonderful before I realised that they would laugh at me, they would. And the memory of what I had set out to do sank back in. I had to make a distraction, a valid distraction, to clasp my revenge.

So I saw an old battered trunk, the edges frayed and worn, abandoned on the side of the road in a mass fleeing in panic. I calmly walked towards it, people shoving me violently out of the way to get past, but I ignored them and I calmly walked towards it as if nothing unusual was happening at all. I stuck out my arm and dragged the trunk to the middle of the street, placing it firmly. And then I stepped onto it, the slight wobble due to the tremor in the ground because of the constant trampling of the Capitol citizens, desperately trying to escape from the rebel's wrath. The wrath I had waited so long to be unleashed onto them.

Standing with two feet firmly supporting me on the trunk, I called out above the hubbub of the crowd. "Hello fellow citizens, my names have been many!"

But the shrieking of young children, the dragging or possessions and the pure bewilderment of the situation drowned out my voice so it was presented as barely a whisper. I sucked in as much breath as I could muster and tried again, shouting as loud as I could.

"HELLO FELLOW CITIZENS, MY NAMES HAVE BEEN MANY!"

And, as if President Snow himself had spoken, the sounds stopped and lulled into an eerie silence and all of the faces turned towards me, stopped in their tracks to listen.

"Listen to what I have to say, because it is important."

And they listened. I don't know why, or how, but they listened. To me. So I decide to tell them. Everything. I decide to tell them everything that has happened to me. And once I start I find the words just start pouring out of my mouth, flowing into an uncontrollable torrent until I can't stop them.

"There was this guy I new, he used to be my next door neighbour. He had lots of names like me, but he went byOrly. I loved designing clothes, he loved making them. We were the perfect pair. He always used to call me a moron, tease me, but he taught me a valuable lesson – he used to tell me that I could do whatever I wanted to. Be whatever I want. But you can't do whatever you want in a dictatorship like Panem, now I understand. If only I could have known that earlier, then he wouldn't be dead right now. Yes that's right; a lot of you will know me as Clarisse mainly. I designed clothes for district ten. For the hunger games. A stylist at the top of my game, but they tookOrlyaway. To die. I don't even know he did. I don't even know if he did anything. And you know what? I hate you all for that, the spite that wells up inside of me is uncontrollable. Because I was his friend, because I could have been more, they demoted me – took away my whole livelihood, my whole life. I tried to get back into styling, changed my name toTigris, but the President paid the plastic surgeon to turn me into a freak, a mutation like the mutts in the hunger games. Every time I look in the mirror my punishment shines through. I couldn't even go outside with you, people just like you, laughing at me in spite. I had to sink to opening a furry underwear shop for a living," to emphasise my point I threw the armful of furry underwear I was holding and unlike before the arms of the crowd reached up and grabbed the garments, then went back to staring at me, gobbling up every word that slipped out of my mouth. Vaguely I noticed a couple of Peacekeepers wavering, unsure of what to do about me. Well, I'd make their decision for them.

"So I got in touch with the rebels. Yes, I'm a rebel. I'm a minor safe house holder, or so I thought. Until the Mockingjay suddenly turned up in my store, waiting to be hidden. Desperate. And I hid her. The President is meant to be all seeing, but I harboured the Mockingjay and how did his network of spies and security cameras help him then? Did they know? Do they know?" I notice that there's a group of Peacekeepers wading through the crowd and I decide to end this briefly. The way I stopped the flow of traffic and become something of a distraction should hopefully have helped Katniss and the others escape. But what I said next wasn't for them, what I said next was for me.

"I was born and raised in the Capitol, given a name I can barely remember. But you know what? Do you know what my name is? It's Alexia, the same as President Snow's daughter. Because my parents wanted me to be just like her. Loyal, strong, powerful – they wanted me to become a dictator. But now I've become a dictator in my own right, A DICTATOR OF FREEDOM!" And with my final yell the Peacekeepers swarmed around me, submerging me just like they did toOrly. And I willingly stepped back and let them claim me as their kill, let them beat me down to the ground. I stepped back because it didn't matter any more. What mattered was that I got my revenge, and as much as I wanted to avoid the fact, I had.

_And as my body sunk below the masses of Peacekeeper uniforms, I let out one cry, one cry out loud for everyone to hear._

_"They called me a stylist! And that's where they went wrong."_


End file.
